


A Hot Day

by Avice



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oral Sex, Romance, Sex, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 07:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avice/pseuds/Avice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A heat wave hits London – Sherlock and John make the best of it without leaving Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hot Day

**Author's Note:**

> My inspiration was that I miss summer (a proper one, not like the last). 
> 
> And as far as the current season is concerned...well… hope this brings warmth and cheer to you all...?

Sherlock was lying on the sitting room floor, arms and legs spread out, when John came down that morning.

“Something wrong with the sofa?” he asked as he stepped over the profusely sweating detective.

“The cushions are too hot.”

It was only the second day of heat, but Sherlock had had his share already. It was the kind of tropical temperature London was lucky to get once a summer, when heat pressed in from doors and windows making everyone, who could, leave the town for sea or at least the country. 

“But you didn’t think you could skip the pressed shirt and trousers for once?” John remarked.

Sherlock had on his customary long sleeved white shirt and black trousers, whereas John had chosen the more appropriate outfit of shorts and a t-shirt and had skipped socks and shoes altogether.

John turned on the kettle and made some toast to go with it. They were out of milk again. He didn’t know what happened to it, since Sherlock claimed not to take it with tea or coffee. But someone in the household consumed their fair share of dairy products and it sure wasn’t him. 

“Toast?” he asked as his were done.

The grunt in response could be interpreted either way, so he popped another two slices in the toaster just in case and carried his plate and mug to the sitting room.

“Sherlock! There’s no way to win with you, is there? I meant: wear a t-shirt like a normal person,” John complained, because now the man was lying just as before, but wearing only his underpants.

“It is slightly better like this, thanks for the tip.”

“You’re putting me off my breakfast,” John said. 

But it wasn’t strictly true. The actuality of looking at his half-naked flatmate while sipping his tea was nowhere near as unpleasant as he would have thought. 

In fact Sherlock looked amazing. Sweat glistening on his lean body, muscles relaxed, stretched over the floor. The pale skin in stark contrast with the crimson carpet. 

“Stop staring then.”

John swallowed and returned his eyes to the plate. He picked up the paper to read, but was too aware of the nude body close to him to be able to focus on it. 

“You want that toast?”

“No.” 

John took it for himself. Eating gave him something simple to do as he eyed Sherlock from behind his paper. 

Gorgeous, definitely. The curves of the hip bones rising from the even plain of the abdomen, the dark nipples against the white skin, the strong thighs spread apart. And to think that that body belonged to a virgin. Probably a virgin. As far as anyone knew. 

It was a shame, criminal almost. To waste that beauty without letting anyone enjoy it. Hopefully Sherlock had at least the sense to enjoy it himself. 

But then, even if Sherlock would allow himself pleasure besides work, would he find anyone who would meet his undoubtedly rigorous criteria for a partner? Probably not. He would not settle for just anybody. 

John could not think of anyone _he_ would approve of for Sherlock, and the man himself was sure to be even sterner. A pity. That body was screaming to be touched. Simply needed someone to lick it from the hollow of the hip to the curve of the collarbone. 

John returned his gaze to the paper, keeping an eye on the immobile figure out of the corner of his eye as he finished his tea. 

It really was hot. He was no stranger to heat, but it started to feel unbearable even for him, his throat dry, back moist. Even pulse elevated. A cold drink was what he needed. 

He had put ice in the freezer the day before and now poured water on top of a couple of cubes in his glass. Wishful thinking to even try to find lemonade or juice in their fridge. And still a bit too early for beer. 

“Want a glass of water?” he asked Sherlock.

“Yes. Please,” Sherlock answered, his coarse voice sending an unfamiliar shiver down John’s back. Unfamiliar in this context, very familiar in some others. 

He knelt down next to Sherlock and handed him the drink. Sherlock propped himself up and took hold of the glass. Their fingers brushed. 

He drank all of it and sighed satisfied, lying back down and closing his eyes.

John couldn’t move away. The sight had mesmerised him. Even from this close he could not see one imperfection in his flatmates physique. The skin even, the muscles forming a perfect symmetry. He fished an ice cube from his glass and, holding it on the tips of his fingers, moved it across Sherlock’s chest. 

Sherlock shuddered at the touch, but the smile on his lips encouraged John to continue. 

“More,” he demanded when the ice had melted and John’s bare fingers rested on him.

John traced Sherlock’s torso with ice. The water and sweat, coolness and heat, now mixing, trickling down his body, following its angles. 

The third cube played around Sherlock’s nipples. They hardened like small pebbles on white sand. Sherlock let out a quiet moan in an unmistakable sign of pleasure, opened his eyes to meet John’s. 

As John moved his hand away to get more ice out of his glass, Sherlock grabbed it, pulled John towards himself.

John leaned in. Sherlock took a hold of the back of his neck and pulled John’s face close to his own. The deep blue gaze making John gasp.

“So, what do you think?” Sherlock asked.

“About what?” John realised his voice was shaking. 

Their lips were so close they were almost touching.

“My body.”

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect,” John whispered. 

He felt Sherlock’s fingers easing the glass off his hand, place it on the floor. Tasted the salt on Sherlock’s upper lip and slid his hand along Sherlock’s stomach to his chest, finally touching, thrilled to follow the paths of coolness still remaining on his skin after the ice.

“I was afraid it wouldn’t be to your taste,” Sherlock murmured into his mouth. 

The hold on John’s neck tightened, a hand wandered on his back, slid under his shirt. 

“Oh, it is. Definitely.”  
He tucked Sherlock’s lip between his, slipped his tongue inside his mouth, hungry for Sherlock. Tasting the lush lips, exploring. Tongue brushing tongue. 

A quiet whimper made John suddenly pull back, remember himself.

“I’m sorry, I…” he mumbled, rested his hands on the floor, wet from Sherlock’s body.

The blue eyes filled with hurt, accusation. He had never seen them like this, so full of emotion. It startled him. What had he done? 

Oh, of course. He smiled gently. Caressed Sherlock’s hair.

“I only mean that I don’t want to… to rush you into anything. I don’t want anything you don’t. I just… I really want you. But I can…” 

He was pulled close again.  
“And I want you, John. I want you to… whatever it is. I want it.” 

Whatever it is. John wasn’t sure either. 

Their lips met again. Soft, pliant. 

John got on top of Sherlock. A leg between his. Felt something hard against his thigh. He shivered with arousal, pushed his hips against Sherlock. 

“Okay. Let me know, if… if you change your mind or feel uncomfortable or...” But John was interrupted by a tongue pressing between his lips.

John’s t-shirt against Sherlock was getting wet. Sherlock tore it off him, grabbed his buttocks to press him in closer and bucked his hips against John. John gasped, cursed quietly as his lips drifted along Sherlock’s neck, teeth nibbling, yearning to bite. Sherlock moaned his name. 

It was amazing. Simply unbelievable having Sherlock under him. Wanting him just as much as he wanted Sherlock. 

His hand strayed lower, firmly along Sherlock’s torso, abdomen, a finger tracing a muscle here and there, until confidently, determinately resting on Sherlock’s cock. Hard, heavy, peeking out of the waist of his undies. Wet tip, John smoothly brushing over it, Sherlock biting his lip, eyes opening wide. 

John moved his fist along the stretched cotton, watched Sherlock as he arched, gasped. John smiled. Perfect, absolutely perfect. Kissing his hipbone.

“You’re gorgeous, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was only able to pant in reply when John started easing his pants lower revealing the beautiful cock in all its glory. 

First time anyone had ever seen him like this, looked at him. Everything had gone so naturally, as if by itself so far, but now Sherlock was nervous, worried. 

He need not have been. John looked at him in awe, appreciation. 

“Gorgeous,” he repeated. Licked his lips. Then. Licked Sherlock. 

His vision went blurry, bright lights even though he closed his eyes. He cursed under his breath. Reached for John’s hair, for something to hang on to as John’s tongue glided along his penis, stroked him, made him utter profanities he didn’t know he knew. 

“John!” he shouted as John’s mouth took him in, all of him, immersed him in John. 

Pleasure – he had thought he knew about sexual pleasure. He was a healthy man, he masturbated. Had thought it wouldn’t be worth the hassle. But this. Fuck. Christ. John. 

John. This – he had never even dreamed of pleasure like this. What had he ever needed cocaine for? When there was… John. 

John sucked him, pulled him deeper. He pushed in, John’s hand guiding him, stroking him, holding on to him. Further, all the way.

“John…,” he panted, “I’m going to… I will… I’m sure I will… die,” he sobbed. 

John’s fingers found his, held on to his hand, mouth on him.

“Only a little,” John whispered, tugging him.

It hit him. Mindless, senseless – all pleasure, incomprehensible pleasure taking him over, striking him, spreading to every nook and corner of his mind, body. Everything gone. Only John’s hand in his. 

John’s kiss on his hip bone. Lips brushing his flanks. Pressing gently on his mouth. A new taste. Cum. His own. He laughed. Reached down, felt John’s hard cock constrained by his shorts. 

Opened them, John trembling against him, pressing his face against Sherlock’s neck, teeth against his shoulder as he stroked John, spread the wet from his glans.

“You’re amazing, John. You’re so… wonderful it hurts.” 

John smiled against him. 

He jerked John, loved his shallow, fast breath on him. 

A tight ‘Ah’ followed by John’s back arching, cock pumping. Falling against him, his sperm spreading over them both.

Sherlock caressed John’s back. Finger following the line of his shoulder blades. Breaths steadying.

The heat, the uncomfortable sticky, sweaty bodies, the reality returning to Sherlock. The coarse carpet under him.

“Shower?” he suggested.

“Yeah,” John mumbled. Didn’t get up straight away, nuzzled his face against Sherlock’s. Kissed him. 

John got up, legs shaking, reached out his hand for Sherlock.

With the cool water pouring over them, they couldn’t stop touching each other. Excited by the discovery of each other’s bodies, fingers wanting to follow the lines of muscles, to feel the skin, to curl around hairs. Washing each other more conscientiously than necessary, just for the sake of discovery. 

“Sherlock…”

“Mmm?”

“I love you, you know that, right?”

“I do, yeah. I… I love you, too.” Strange words. A new language he was learning. One taught by John. 

John turned off the shower, took a towel, dried Sherlock carefully.

“Do you want to drive out to Brighton or something?” John asked.

“No, don’t want to be stuck in traffic the whole day,” Sherlock pointed out. “Let’s get a fan and set it up in my bedroom. Is there more ice?”

“Yep.”

They would be alright then. What more do you need in a heat wave besides a bedroom, a fan, enough ice and plenty of nudity?


End file.
